


just tell me you'll be okay

by dr_reidsanchorsocks



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Drug Addiction, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Rape/Non-con, Rape/Non-con Elements, Season/Series 05, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Indulgent, This sounds really sad, Work In Progress, it kinda is tbh, this fandom is probably dead but whatever lol, title may change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-13 03:35:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29770071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dr_reidsanchorsocks/pseuds/dr_reidsanchorsocks
Summary: House hated himself. He hated himself in every and any conceivable way. Everything he did, everything he said, it made his skin itch and his chest tight. Even just looking in a mirror sometimes, acknowledging his existence, was too much. Most of all, House hated what he did to other people. He hated how he made them care about him and gave them nothing in return. He hated how it seemed like no matter what he did, he couldn’t reprogram his brain into something even resembling kindness. If anyone asked, of course he’d claim he prefers being an ass, being selfish and uncaring. But well, everyone lies.//season 5 canon divergence aubasically angst where stacy raped house after the infarction and he has to deal with the effects of that in his and wilsons relationship years later since he is an emotionally constipated toddler
Relationships: Greg House/James Wilson, Past - Greg House/Stacy Warner
Comments: 4
Kudos: 24





	just tell me you'll be okay

**Author's Note:**

> hello welcome to my entirely self-indulgent angst fest where i project onto house for 4.6k words :) lemme know what u think, kudos/comments are greatly appreciated!! set in season 5 after birthmarks but before kutners suicide, probably around the middle of the season

House hated himself. He hated himself in every and any conceivable way. Everything he did, everything he said, it made his skin itch and his chest tight. Even just looking in a mirror sometimes, acknowledging his existence, was too much. Most of all, House hated what he did to other people. He hated how he made them care about him and gave them nothing in return. He hated how it seemed like no matter what he did, he couldn’t reprogram his brain into something even resembling kindness. If anyone asked, of course he’d claim he prefers being an ass, being selfish and uncaring. But well, everyone lies. 

House especially hated how Wilson put up with all of it. Even after killing his girlfriend, stalking him, drugging him numerous times, ruining every possibility of a good relationship Wilson had ever had, he stayed. And House didn’t know why. It scratched at the back of his mind, an anomaly. After everything, Wilson loved House, and House loved him back. He didn’t understand how. He didn’t understand why. He couldn’t understand. 

They’d begun dating after House’s dad’s funeral. They reconnected and Wilson had realized he needed House as much as House needed him. One thing led to another, and it was now a month later, and Wilson’s arm was snug around House’s middle in his bed. Back to chest, the sound of Jimmy’s breath creeping down his neck, leaving goosebumps and raised hairs in its wake. And although House had everything he ever could have wanted, he still just laid there, thinking about how much he hated himself. How much he didn’t understand why good things still bothered with him. How Wilson shouldn’t love him. How he doesn’t deserve it. Doesn’t deserve him.

Wilson was by no means a heavy sleeper, but House’s thoughts were thankfully silent – at least to anyone else. His mind was a constant loop of _why why why_ and House already knew he was in for another sleepless night. Sometimes he wished he could open up. Tell Wilson exactly what he was feeling and accept the love and support Wilson was sure to give. But he couldn’t. It wouldn’t be worth trying. It never would be. At least he knew exactly why that was. _Stacy._ The name still left a sour taste in his mouth all these years later. 

Stacy had been the love of his life. Unfortunately, this also meant she had been the only person in the world who could truly hurt him. Who could damage him beyond repair. He knew their relationship was unhealthy. He wasn’t stupid and he’d passed his Psych 101 class. It obviously hadn’t started off that way. In the beginning it was wonderful. He was happy, actually happy. Not content or decent or positive, he was genuinely happy to be alive. He was still an ass, that was something he didn’t think was capable of changing, and they still fought and disagreed and compromised like any other couple. But, for once in his life it didn’t make him despise himself. He didn’t resent her, or stop caring, even when she lied or insulted or ignored him. They _were_ happy. Of course, that tense is past for a reason. 

The thing about abusive relationships is that usually a person doesn’t realize they’re in one until it’s too late to get out. Toxic relationships are manipulative and this one was no different. That doesn’t prevent House from blaming himself, but he knows it never would. Stacy was smart. She was able to hide her true colours for a long time. Long enough until he physically couldn’t escape her. She had made a decision in that hospital during the infarction. One he had to live with. One that actively went against his wishes. One that made him hate her. But he didn’t leave. He _couldn’t_ leave her. And maybe it was his fault for naming her his medical proxy instead of Wilson. Or maybe it was his fault for staying with her long enough to trust her. Or maybe it was just karma. Retribution for all of the shitty things he’d done thus far and all the shitty things yet to come. Maybe Stacy was really just punishing him. After all, she seemed to have no qualms with that. 

For whatever reason, House did stay with her after the infarction. Despite the constant nagging in his mind – and the physical nagging from Wilson – he stayed, because he knew Stacy was the best he was ever gonna get. He wasn’t going to sacrifice that, no matter what it’d cost. And soon after, Stacy showed him what he really deserved. What the best he could get was. And he rationalized it because what else could he do? Not long after he got out of the hospital the smoking started. He never said anything because well, he was hopped up on Vicodin all day! A cigarette or two here and there wasn’t killing anyone. He knew it was his own fault, of course. He was needy and she was stressed. So, when the drinking started, he knew it was better to keep his mouth shut and pretend like he couldn’t smell the bourbon on her breath when she’d climb into bed with him. And if she saw him taking a few extra pills here and there, who was she to mention it? Their vices worked for them. And neither wanted to think of the alternative. 

When she started getting him drunk too, House knew he should’ve seen it as a red flag. He was already taking almost twice his prescribed dose for Vicodin and drinking wasn’t exactly giving him a clearer mind. When he asked Stacy why they were drinking so early, or if it was a good idea, she’d just shrug and tell him he looked like he needed a pick-me-up. He wasn’t going to argue with that, they’d both been depressed, and it wasn’t like he didn’t enjoy it. His head would go fuzzy and for the first time since the infarction he felt okay. It allowed him to forget about his disability, his pain, the fights he was sure to have in the morning. So, he’d throw back two white pills and a glass of something amber he couldn’t quite distinguish – _was it scotch or bourbon? Maybe whiskey?_ – and pretend his world hadn’t ended. Sometimes Stacy would keep topping off glasses until he blacked out, leaving him on the sofa with glassy eyes, and going to their bed alone. Sometimes she just waited until he was pliable. Vision blurry and body loose, she’d peel off his clothing while he tried to figure out what exactly was going on. He was vulnerable and she knew it. Drugged and unable to walk, she’d climb on top of him and ignore his slurred protests, uncoordinated attempts of shrugging her off failed in his state. Sometimes she didn’t even get him drunk. Turns out Vicodin and a bum leg is enough of a paralytic as any, regardless of the alcohol. He would curse his biology, as she did whatever she wanted. Took whatever she wanted. Sometimes she would slip him Viagra. After a while he just stopped trying to stop it. He loved her; he would give her anything. And she would take anything he had to give. Over and over and over. Until one day she decided it wasn’t enough. She left. And took House with her. At least any part of him that mattered. And he let her. 

After each time, she’d leave him where he was and go out for a smoke. Sometimes he just sat there, letting his consciousness drift until he could pretend like he forgot about everything that just happened. Sometimes he’d drag himself up, limping into the cold porcelain tub, letting it fill up with water so hot it felt like it was boiling his organs like a cooking lobster, scrubbing at his skin until it turned red and raw. Sometimes it bled, he didn’t mind. Trying to burn off the evidence of every touch she laid on his body. He never felt clean, no matter how much soap he used. The shame dug under his skin, laying eggs like larvae waiting to hatch. Sometimes he’d puke. Sometimes he’d just cry. He was disgusted by himself; for being a cripple, an addict, for letting Stacy do whatever she wanted, for pushing away anyone who could help, for not just enjoying it like any other man would. He felt as if he’d been branded by her. Every time he looked down to see the ugly deformed muscle of his leg or see the scratches she’d left on his shoulders. Logically – because House was a logical person – House knew he couldn’t stay with Stacy forever. Their relationship was destructive. Stacy knew how to damage House and he knew how to damage her. Their love was a glass mirror and everyday one of them tapped it a little harder, just waiting to see when it’d break, and who’d be left dealing with the fallout. And although Stacy broke it, she left House to pick up the shards. 

House had never told anyone what their relationship really consisted of. Not even Wilson. It was nobody’s business, and he didn’t want to deal with the consequences. The only reactions he could imagine someone having were either pity or disbelief, and he wasn’t sure which was worse. He often felt stupid that the whole thing even still bothered him after she left. But slowly, it did fade away into the background of his mind. Sure, he was a miserable bastard, but he had a pretty good excuse for that, and it wasn’t like he was ever going to have to see Stacy again. At least that was what he thought. And then he did. And suddenly, the mirror he’d spent five years carefully constructing, gluing each shard back together piece by piece, shattered. And once again, he was left with the fallout.

House loved Stacy; he really did. He’d never stopped loving her. No matter what she did to him, what she took from him, what she left in him, he loved her. And love makes you do stupid things. 

Wilson tried his best to warn House. He didn’t know the real depth of what happened, but he had been there after Stacy left, and he knew what it did to House. She’d broken his heart. She’d broken him. And in hindsight, House can see how completely insane he was being. Trying to steal back the woman who took everything from him. The married woman who took everything from him. The only thing crazier than him trying to do it in the first place was the fact that it worked. That she did go back to him. That they slept together again. That he left her this time. 

The sex was an anxious familiarity that left his stomach rolling. He shoved back all his feelings into the deepest recess of his mind, trying to find the satisfaction of winning. Of achieving his goal. He was happy, he was high. But once he stood in that hotel room with her, as clear-headed as he was capable of, that happiness drew away from him once again. Settling into a pit of unease. For once he wasn’t making an impulsive action – finally something his team can take credit for due to their constant interruptions – and he was met with the reality of the situation. She’d booked a room, for his leg, with the intention of them having to share a bed, after showing House she had no intention of being faithful to her sick husband. It was the perfect mix of kindness and malicious he loved in her. It was the most direct attempt of her manipulation he’d seen yet. But he still wanted to give in. And that scared him. Because he knew he’d do anything for her, and she wouldn’t. He gave in anyway.

She left again, though it was different this time, House had chosen it. It gave him a complicated sense of control and he wondered if she even knew what she did to him. He’d been tempted to come clean to Wilson, to finally tell him what happened all those years ago after the infarction. But he didn’t, and Wilson didn’t ask him to. He wondered if he’d ever stop loving Stacy. If it would be easier if he did. And then he got drunk and had sex with a hooker. If his skin was a little redder the next day and his bar of soap a little smaller, well that was no one’s business but his own. 

House liked sex before Stacy. He liked it _a lot_. Call it his addictive personality or a penchant for destructive behaviours, but he liked sex a lot and was the last person on earth to ever deny an offer. Whether girlfriends, boyfriends, hookers, or random people picked up at bars, House had low standards and a high libido. But then Stacy took that from him like she took every other good thing in his life and suddenly he was met with the depressing reality that he couldn’t have sex sober. Even just calling a hooker and paying for sex was an ordeal that required at least two glasses of scotch and a few more Vicodin than was probably safe, plus Viagra if “little House” was in a mood (which he usually was). Even during, he couldn’t even concentrate on an orgasm without feeling Stacy’s phantom hands on his sweat-soaked skin. After their rebound he found the experience even worse; too recent, too familiar, and far too powerful to even resemble enjoying himself. The smell of her hair stuck in his nose, the taste of her lips clutching onto his tongue. So, House stopped having sex. And he stopped thinking about sex. On the rare occasions he watched porn, he couldn’t even bring himself to become aroused and usually just ended snapping the DVD in frustration. Masturbation was a futile attempt to prove he hadn’t been completely ruined, and he often resulted proving himself wrong. Denial was strong but a biological reaction was stronger if the bile that rose in his throat was any indication.

He missed sex. It made him feel good before and he wanted that feeling back. But it didn’t come back. And now he was laying in the arms of his lover, hating himself because he knows he can never truly give Jimmy what he wants. Wilson was a sex-addict. He’d had numerous affairs and inappropriate relationships, and House wasn’t sure he could go more than a week without having sex. But they’d been dating for a month, and House still hadn’t put out. He knew it was stupid to feel insecure, but Jimmy had cheated in the past. What made him any different than all the women he’d been with before House? What made him worth staying with? Sometimes he contemplated just getting drunk and doing it, more so to get it over with than anything. Maybe if he had sex with Wilson that would make their relationship secure. Of course, Wilson had brought it up a few times already, and it was obvious he’d been expecting it earlier. But how could House tell him the truth? How could House admit he couldn’t, even if he did want to. How could he admit he didn’t want to?

So, there was only one thing House could do. Put out. And soon. 

Wilson came home to a semi-drunk House lounging across the sofa in his living room. They spent most nights at House’s since Wilson was still living in Amber’s old apartment and it felt a bit like a betrayal to have House there this soon. He loved House, but that didn’t erase his love for Amber, and it seemed disrespectful to let a person who mostly hated her in life take over her old living space. House didn’t seem to mind either way.

There was an open bottle of bourbon sat on the table next to an uncapped bottle of Vicodin and an empty glass. The bottle of bourbon was half-empty, and he wondered how much House had to drink, failing to recall how full it’d been before. He was worried. Well, Wilson was always worried when it came to House. It seemed that the man was incapable of making a single healthy decision about his life and Wilson was usually left acting as his substitute conscience. 

“How much ‘ve you had to drink, House?” The tone of his voice was doing a bad job at masking his obvious unease around House mixing drink with drugs, but he didn’t really care. 

“Oh, hey Jimmy. Not too much, don’t worry about me, just enough to get the blood pumping!” Smiling, House made a growling sound and pulled Wilson in for a kiss from where he was laying on the couch. Wilson relaxed into it, kissing back more fervently when House picked up the pace and let his tongue into his mouth. It was passionate, and Wilson was curious. Usually, House didn’t do this kind of stuff. Actually, come to think of it House _never_ did this kind of stuff. They hadn’t even had sex yet, or really done more than a few heated make-out sessions in bed. This fact had surprised Wilson, as House usually never stopped bragging about his recent conquests and hookers – though those were usually synonymous – but seemed almost uninterested when it came down to actually doing anything sexual. At first Wilson thought maybe it was about him, since House was the first guy he’d ever been with. It seemed almost sweet, like he was trying to take things slow for Wilson’s sake. But after he’d brought up the idea of having sex with House, and him still not seeming sold, he wasn’t so sure. 

Now, with House’s hands clawing under his shirt, breath hot on his lips, he figured it didn’t really matter anymore since House had clearly decided it’d been long enough.

“Oh, Greg, fuck.” He breathed hard as House nipped down his neck. It was perfect, his smell, his taste, everything. He rubbed his hands down House’s sides, dragging his nails, he was about to pull his shirt off when suddenly it all stopped. 

House was silent. That was the first big sign Wilson noticed indicating there was something _wrong_. “House?” His breathing had picked up but there was no other indication of him having heard Wilson. “Greg? What’s wrong?” Wilson was sat on his lap, so he figured maybe it was his leg, but looking down he saw his body wasn’t even touching it. Somehow remaining off of it as though even subconsciously he wanted to prevent House’s pain. Taking his face in his hands, he looked into House’s eyes, surprised to see them moist and lined with red. 

“Greg, hey, please talk to me, what’s wrong?” His breathing picked up again and Wilson’s eyebrows knitted together as he realized: _House was having a panic attack._

“Can – can you, please, get off of me.” House cringed as he spoke, and Wilson felt his heart rate pick up as he scrambled off the couch to the floor beside him. 

“Greg, what’s wrong? Did I do something?” His head shook immediately at that, eyes closing as he attempted to slow down his breathing. Wilson was officially freaking the fuck out.

“I’m sorry.” House’s voice was quiet and broken. Wilson wasn’t sure he'd ever seen House like this before in his life. 

“It’s okay, I promise. Can you tell me what you’re sorry for?” He was grasping at straws at this point. Trying desperately to get anything out of House that could explain what was happening and why it happened in the first place. 

“I can’t have sex with you.” A tear finally fell from House’s blue eyes and Wilson pushed away the urge to hold him. He wasn’t sure what House meant. Was he breaking up with him? Was he just not attracted to Wilson in that way? Did he just not want to have sex? After a few seconds Wilson realized House wasn’t intending on expanding without some prompting, so he continued.

“Why not?”

“Because I can’t have sex with anyone.” By now, Wilson was equally confused as he was worried. 

“What do you mean by that? Why not? Is it the Vicodin? The pain? I’ve seen hookers leaving here before.”

House cringed again, closing his eyes as his face screwed up in obvious discomfort. Wilson had definitely said the wrong thing, but he wasn’t even sure what that was.

“Yeah the hookers I hired that I could only handle touching me if I was so drunk I couldn’t feel my own face.” Wilson’s eyes widened, alarmed. God, he hoped House wasn’t saying what he thought he was saying.

“House… what happened to you?” And the dam broke. 

Stacy had ruined him. Destroyed every good thing he’d ever had and will ever have. Not even being completely shitfaced could block out the ghost of Stacy’s body on his. Not even Wilson could make him forget. 

“Stacy happened.” He was full on crying now, House couldn’t even feel embarrassed, too overwhelmed by every other emotion barreling at him full speed, knocking the breath out of his lungs. Wilson looked like he’d finally come to a conclusion, his expression conveying anger and worry in concerning amounts.

“Did she – ” 

“Don’t fucking say it! Don’t fucking say the word! Please.” House knew he wouldn’t be able to deal with it if he did. 

“House…” Wilson was giving him the Cancer Look. The same face he wore every time he had to tell someone they were dying. House hated it. And he especially hated it being directed at him. 

“Wilson, please. Don’t make me, don’t make me say it.” He wiped his eyes and looked away, not interested in the pity surely present on Wilson’s face.

“Okay. I wont. But you do understand… right? If you didn’t want it – ”

“Jimmy please stop talking for one fucking minute.” He went silent at that and House took a breath. Of course, he knew what Stacy did wasn’t, well, consensual. There was almost no way it could have been given the level of intoxicated he'd been on a daily basis back then. But he didn’t want it either. He didn’t want to be treated like his thoughts didn’t matter, like his feelings didn’t even register in any meaningful way. It reminded him of his father. Feeling wholly out of control, helpless, to the point of not even being able to move unless she allowed it. “You don’t understand how lucky you are” seemed to be a shared sentiment between Stacy and John, and House wished for one minute they could have opened their eyes and realized luck doesn’t exist. And if it did, House certainly had not obtained the good kind. 

He slowly brought his eyes back to meet Wilson’s, fighting the temptation to just turn away once he saw his face. 

“House you need to talk about this. _We_ need to talk about this!”

“Why? What would talking about this do? What would I gain from it?”

“House you got drunk so you could sleep with me because you were too scared of having to tell me you didn’t want to. We need to talk about this whether you “gain” something or not! Did you really think you couldn’t just tell me? Instead of purposefully hurting yourself just to make me happy. Did you really think this would make me happy?” _Did he?_

“I don’t – I don’t know. I just thought that if, God I don’t fucking know what I thought can we just stop talking about this?”

“No. Please just, tell me what you were thinking.”

“I – ” House was scared. He always cared about what Wilson thought, despite what it seemed, and he was scared Wilson was gonna tell him he was right. That he couldn’t be with House if they couldn’t have sex. That House wasn’t worth it. That House would never be worth anything.

Wilson grabbed his hand, slowly as if not quite sure House would allow him to touch just yet. His hand was sweaty, and Wilson’s was cold, soothing on his skin. He thought maybe he could tell Wilson. Maybe Wilson wouldn’t say any of that. Maybe he’d just tell him it’s all okay. Maybe this was his only chance.

“House, please.” Maybe Wilson would think he was worth it.

“I thought that if we had sex you would stay with me. So, I decided that getting drunk was my best bet. Clearly I was wrong.”

“What do you mean “stay with you”? Did you think I was gonna leave you because we weren’t having sex?” Wilson looked slightly offended but mostly just sad. House felt bad for making him feel that way at all.

“C’mon Jimmy. What was I supposed to think? You kept bringing it up and you always had girlfriends, or wives, or girlfriends and wives. I mean, am I supposed to believe I'm any better than them? They actually wanted to have sex with you and it still didn’t work out. I thought if I just got it over with you wouldn’t have any reason to leave me yet. I, Wilson I can’t deal with you leaving. You’re the only good thing I have left.” Wilson had started crying too. Eyes streaming as he rubbed his thumb across House’s palm. For the first time, House couldn’t read his expression. The anxiety that triggered was quickly calmed when Wilson’s lips turned upward in a sad smile.

“House, I love you. The fact that you’ve been around longer than any other relationship in my life should be enough evidence for you being better than any of them. I don’t care if we never have sex, or if it takes a year, or five, or ten. If all I wanted was sex, I'd go to a bar or call a hooker. I'm with you because I want to be with you, because I love you, because I want to be loved by you. All I want from you is for you to start talking to me. To tell me that you don’t want to do something because it makes you uncomfortable instead of just getting drunk and toughing through it because its what you think I want. I want you to be happy House. And if having sex is going to make you miserable then I don’t want to do it. I _love_ you. Okay?”

House’s eyes had long gone blurry with tears. His voice failed him, so he just nodded instead, accepting the hug that enveloped him once Wilson had finished his speech. That night, Wilson held him as tight as he could, wrapping him in his arms. But no matter how much Wilson reassured him, House still utterly and completely _hated_ himself. And most of all, House hated the way Wilson looked at him like he was going to break. He hated it because he thought it was true. He was going to break, and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to put himself back together this time. And he wasn’t sure Wilson had the patience to help. Or maybe he just didn’t want him to.

**Author's Note:**

> hoped u liked this! im currently writing chapter 2 which is just a ton more angst and then eventually hilson fluff so i guess subscribe if ur interested :)


End file.
